


bazooka bubble gum princess

by kasuutan



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Non-Chronological, Pet Names, i guess, uber driver au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 01:04:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8267032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kasuutan/pseuds/kasuutan
Summary: “You missed me.” Keith doesn’t phrase it like a question. He doesn’t need to. Shiro’s got Keith’s name tattooed to the inside of his mouth, and everyone he’s been with can taste it, too.“I miss me, too.” shiro wanted a ride to the club and ends up with keith as his uber driver





	

**Author's Note:**

> me: i want to write something with substance....something original...intriguing...  
> also me: what if keith was an uber driver
> 
> this fic doesnt even make sense to me rn all i know is keith is a grease queen and never washes his hair and shiros somehow ok with this  
> also its somehow all like vaguely 90s themed so just like go with it just pretend uber is totally a #just90skids thing
> 
> please dont follow any of keiths examples always use condoms dont smoke inside your car with the windows closed and for the love of god dont drink and drive

He drives a beat up red station wagon with the front hubcaps missing. The Aloha Hula Girl mounted to his dashboard is missing her head, ripped off and stuck in the mouth of a Godzilla action figure sitting above the passenger air vent.

  
The upholstery smells like a combination of cigarette butts and stale Juicy Fruit sticks, and when he reaches over to close the passenger door, his hand bumps against a cupholder housing a half-finished 40z.

  
“Where to?” It’s punctuated with a snap of gum and chugged with a swig from a suspiciously dark, unlabeled bottle sitting in the console cup holder. It would be in Shiro’s right mind to get out of the car and call a different Uber.

  
“42nd and Garrison.”

  
“You want the scenic route?”

  
He should definitely call a different Uber.

  
His driver’s got inky black hair, greasy between the strands and stuck to the nape of his neck with sweat- he’s in desperate need for a trim. His dark red sweatshirt’s fuzzballed around the edges of his sleeves, and he’s clutching the steering wheel with bony fingers and popping knuckles. Beneath his eyes, he’s got dark smudges rimming his waterline, like he fell asleep in Friday night’s mascara, but it’s already Wednesday and it’s somehow still there. Him and his car smell like a wet ashtray, but for some reason, Shiro wants to call him ‘princess.’

  
“Surprise me.” He hears a tongue click, and Shiro watches bony fingers drum on the edge of the steering wheel.

  
“You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

  
Actually, Shiro does, in theory. He’s asking for a ride to the club. It’s a $9 ride, assuming it’s not a surge hour.

  
Shiro reaches forward and flicks off the GPS.

  
“Let’s drive, Keith.”

 

 

Last time he saw Keith, he’d tasted a little but more like Bazooka Bubblegum and youth. Now, it’s more like a pack and a half of Marlboros and the rim of a shotglass. But when Shiro traces his tongue along the roof of Keith’s mouth, oh yeah, it’s still there. He tastes it; bubblegum pink.

  
Keith suddenly cricks his neck and leans forward. He bites at Shiro’s tongue and it almost feels reprimanding.

  
Keith tastes like a bad decision. Shiro wants to swallow him whole.

  
“Enough with this gay kissing shit.” Keith claws his fingers into Shiro’s hair to accentuate his point. He yanks them apart, pulls down until Shiro’s neck cranes back to the point of almost being painful. Keith drags his tongue along the popping vein, follows it all the way down to the bump of his collarbone and bites. It stings, and this time, Keith doesn’t kiss the pain away.

  
Shiro guesses he doesn’t deserve that.

  
But Keith does pull back, rest his head in the crook of Shiro’s shoulder. He mouths at the hollow of his throat, not quite kissing, not quite biting. He runs a finger over the raw-redenned bruise, rubs it in a way Shiro might even describe as _tender_.

  
“You missed me.” Keith doesn’t phrase it like a question. He doesn’t need to. Shiro’s got Keith’s name tattooed to the inside of his mouth, and everyone he’s been with can taste it, too.

  
“I miss me, too.” And Shiro’s grip on Keith’s shirt goes tense. Suddenly, the bumps of Keith’s spine poke out too much, he can feel them cutting into his palms. He runs his hands up Keith’s back, lets bony little knobs cut invisible lacerations into his skin. They won’t ever bleed, not like real cuts do, but they hurt twice as much, maybe more.  
It’s not really the time or place to say ‘sorry’, in the backseat of Keith’s beat-up station wagon. Shiro isn’t sure if there ever will be a place or time, but in the current moment and the current setting, he wants Keith in his lap, Keith against his chest, Keith under his skin.

  
He lets himself get shoved down against the back seats, cigarette ash puffing up from the upholstery and clouding around their heads. Shiro nearly knocks his head against the car door, but he doesn’t care with Keith perched up above his thighs, twisting out of his ratty sweatshirt and dropping it to the car floor.

  
That little peek of skin right above Keith’s beltline has Shiro’s hands on him like he’s magnetic. It’s a cliche, really, so romance-novel, but Shiro’s been starved for that familiar, human warmth. And beneath the grease-stained sweatshirt, the ratted-up tshirts, Keith’s skin is still his. He lets his hands sit there, right at the curve of Keith’s waist. Keith clicks his tongue again and combs his fingers through his dirty hair. It has Shiro swallowing, hard, watching Keith pull a hair-tie off of his wrist and knot it haphazardly into a messy ponytail. The reaction isn’t lost to Keith, smirking down in a way that almost looks hurt, vulnerable.

  
“You’re thinking about me sucking your dick, aren’t you?” And despite himself, Shiro coughs. Dirty hair, dirty clothes, dirty mouth. Keith doesn’t wait for Shiro to defend himself, just starts guiding Shiro’s hands further up his shirt and rolling his hips lazily, uncommitted.

  
“Because I’d always pull my hair up before you stuck your cock in my mouth. You had a bad habit of getting cum in my hair.” He says it so nonchalantly, like he’s talking about the weather. Not their past sex life, key word being past. Shiro groans, and he can’t tell if it’s from pain or arousal.

  
“You say it like you didn’t like it.”

  
“I’m just saying it because it’s what happened.” Shiro has to shake the fact that they’re speaking in past tense.

  
Keith’s getting tired of Shiro’s heavy petting, apparently, because he’s shucking his shirt off and dropping it with his sweatshirt. Shiro lets out an audible exhale, and Keith raises a brow, like he’s saying _what? It’s not anything new._

  
But it feels new, and Shiro’s on him like he’s starving, hands running up the curve of his waist, between the hollow dips of his ribs, and he has the audacity to say-  
“You haven’t been taking care of yourself, have you?” And that, that was definitely not the right thing to say.

  
Keith pins him down, shoves him by the shoulders until they’re nose to nose, so close Keith could bite off his lips. Shiro thinks he’s beautiful.

  
“Like you could take care of me better?” It’s a question they both know the answer to. Shiro doesn’t need to respond, just kitten licks at Keith’s lips and hope he doesn’t try to bite off his tongue.

  
“No one can take care of you, princess.” He plays a risk- fuck, this entire thing? Pinned in the back of Keith’s car, cupping his ass through jeans so threadbare, Shiro wonders if he could finger him through the denim- it’s all one massive risk.

  
Keith shudders, full body, and that’s how Shiro knows. Despite his mouth, despite his temper, Keith still _feels_.

  
“Damn straight.”

  
And Keith’s at the fly of his jeans, palming his hard-on so roughly, Shiro’s worried he’s gonna cut his dick on the teeth of his zipper. He lets out a hiss, and Keith chuckles, like the discomfort Shiro’s in is his sick form of payback. Shiro can’t necessarily blame him, though. Keith relents though, because he is only human. He pops the button, pulls down the fly, and shoves down his pants and boxers in one, impatient motion. It’s just enough for Shiro’s cock to spring free, but not enough for him to gain any sort of mobility.

  
“When was the last time you had anything other than your own hand around you?” Keith punctuates his question with a long, firm stroke. Shiro’s drawn out groan and embarrassing back arch gives away the answer, but he still says-

  
“You don’t want to know the answer to that.” Shiro grips at Keith’s ass, rubbing at the worn out denim and circling his hole through the fabric. “And you?”  
Keith thumbs Shiro’s head and slicks his fingers up with the precum dribbling out of the slit.

  
“You don’t want to know the answer to that.” Somehow, Shiro knows the meaning behind that is miles different than the meaning behind his.

  
Keith slaps away Shiro’s hand away from his ass shuffles his way out of his jeans. He gets them off, somehow, in the tight confines of his car and they fall in a heap with the rest of his discarded clothes.

  
With Keith on his lap, fully naked, pink cock standing hard against his abdomen, Shiro feels severely, severely overdressed. There isn’t an ounce of shame in Keith’s posture, neither a sense of pride. Just a sense of being, as he reaches behind himself with his cum-slicked hand and arches in such a perfect angle, Shiro wants to measure him with a protractor.

  
“Jesus, princess.” Shiro pants it out, and Keith opens one eye to glance him over.

  
“I didn’t say you could do that.” He’s got his eyes trained on the hand Shiro’s got wrapped around his own dick.

  
“Keith, I-”

  
“You spent a whole year fucking your own hand. Watch, or you might regret it.”

  
Shiro can’t argue with that. But-  “Can I at least hold you?” Keith’s expression flickers, but he turns his head to the side, bangs falling in a way that hides his face.  
“I guess I can’t really stop you.” They both know he could, actually. But Shiro doesn’t say anything about that, just runs his hands up the backs of Keith’s bare thighs, rubs at the skin beneath the curve of his ass, and does as he’s told. Watches.

  
And jesus, is it a sight to see. Hair slipping loose from his pony tail, tickling the tops his shoulders, the edge of his collar bone. He can feel Keith’s pants against his neck, wet and heavy, but he’s quiet, like Shiro doesn’t deserve to hear him. Instead, it’s Shiro groaning out, feels just the lightest brush of Keith’s cock against his every time he rocks his hips down.

  
It’s been long enough, though, that somehow, that contact just might be-

  
“Keith- fuck you have to stop, I’m gonna-”

  
“No.” And yeah, Shiro’s a man of patience, but what the fuck does Keith mean, no?

  
And then there’s a hand wrapped around the base of his dick, tight, unrelenting and- oh, that’s what he meant when he said no.

  
Shiro groans, trails off into something that could be constituted as a whine, and blinks up at Keith with wet rimmed eyes.

  
“You’re not coming until your cock’s in me. I didn’t wait a year for you to cream yourself like a 12 year old having his first wet dream.” Shiro catches his breath and grabs at Keith’s ass.

  
“But baby, you are my wet dream.” Keith scowls, but when he sticks his tongue out, Shiro can see the laughter in his eyes, and god, Shiro might cry right there.

  
“Don’t call me ‘baby’.” Keith’s raising himself to his knees, pulling his fingers out of himself with a low groan trapped in the back of his throat.

  
“Wait Keith- you’re not. You’re not gonna take me dry, are you?” Shiro feels panic wash through him, both for the preservation of Keith’s asshole, and also because his dick is throbbing, and the concept of not getting off is-

  
“Are you insane? Of course not.” Keith’s looking at him like Shiro’s actually stupid. “Your dick is fucking huge. I hate myself, but not enough to take you dry.” Shiro has the audacity to flush, and he watches Keith lean over to grab at the pouch on the back of the passenger seat. The pop of the lid has Shiro washed over in relief, until Keith’s swearing under his breath.

  
“Fucking christ I didn’t- well I didn’t have the expectation of picking you up today. Don’t happen to have a condom, do you Shiro?” Shiro feels himself pale to the point of matching his hair.

  
“I. No.”

  
Keith looks down at Shiro’s dick, and he feels it twitch under the inspection.   “Whatever. We’ve done a lot worse.” Before Shiro can protest, Keith’s drizzling cold lube straight from the bottle all over his dick. The sudden cool feeling makes Shiro hiss; Keith was never one to be patient.

  
“You ready?” Keith’s the one asking, but Shiro feels like this is a little bit backwards.

  
“Always.” And if Shiro didn’t know any better, he’d say that was smile, however slight, flitting across Keith’s lips.

  
Keith’s reaching down, holding Shiro’s cock in place as he raises himself on his knees. Just the contact of his head pressing against Keith’s hole has Shiro blinking back stars, but when he starts to give way, feels himself start to slip in, Shiro can’t keep his mouth shut.

  
“Oh, Jesus Keith you feel-” _the same._

“You’re still too fucking huge.” Keith says it from behind clenched teeth, head thrown back, pretty throat begging to be-

  
“Sorry- fuck.” He’s got Keith’s ass pressed up against his thighs, filled him up to the base of his cock. Shiro wraps two big hands around his torso, thumbs nearly touching around his waist. He draws nonsense shapes along the jut of his hip bones, feeling the tremors in Keith’s body as he adjusts.

  
“You okay?” Keith’s the one asking, and again, it feels a little bit backwards.

  
“Shouldn’t I be asking you?” 

“You look like you’re about to cry.” Shiro opens his mouth, but instead of words, a moan’s dragged out of him when Keith suddenly raises his hips and slams back down on Shiro’s lap.

  
“You were- saying-?” Keith punctuates every word with a pant and a rock of his hips, leans down to brace his weight around Shiro’s head. Immediately, Shiro latches to his throat, sucking bruises, trailing his tongue, nipping his teeth.

  
“Just missed you, is all.” And finally, Keith moans out, arches his back against Shiro’s hands, lets Shiro trail fingers along his spine.

  
“I know you did.” Shiro chuckles, because that’s Keith’s way of saying _I missed you, too._

  
Keith pulls himself back up, back straight and looking down at him like he’s seated on a throne, just like a-

  
“Princess- I’m close-”

  
Keith smirks, and it’s got Shiro clawing at his hips, groaning as his eyes flicker shut.

  
“Eyes up, soldier. Look at me.” Shiro wants to give himself a pat on the back for being able to listen. And damn, is he glad, because he’s moaning at the sight, Keith bouncing on his cock, one hand thumbing the head of his own dick, other hand palming at a pebbling pink nipple.

  
“You gonna come, Shiro?”

  
“Jesus- yeah, yeah-”

  
“You gonna come in my ass, Shiro?”  

“Fuck, Keith- god, yeah- Can I? Can I, Keith?”

  
“Make me come first.”

  
And Shiro can’t think of a time he’s moved faster. He’s bolting straight up to latch a mouth to Keith’s chest, run his tongue over that same rosy-pink nipple. Bruising fingers dig into Keith’s hips, pulling him down on every thrust to drag moans cracked so rough around the edges, like they haven’t been heard in ages.

  
“God Shiro- good boy. So good- I’m gonna-”

  
“Please, Keith- please-”  

Watching Keith come is a blessing in it’s own. He comes with his full body, spine arching, throat baring, like a work of art Shiro needs to memorize. Vaguely, Shiro has the thought that Keith is beautiful, until it’s kissed out of him with a bruising press of lips, and that’s it.

  
Shiro’s coming into Keith’s mouth, riding it out as he kisses Keith like a starving man- because he is. He’s starved completely dry for Keith.

  
They fall unceremoniously back down to the dirty seats of the beat up station wagon. Shiro turns his head to look at the console of the car, Aloha Hula Girl swaying her hips from the rocking of the car. Keith’s pants against his neck start to even out, and he’s reaching behind his head to pull out his hair tie.

  
“You need a shower.” Shiro’s got his nose buried in his dirty hair. “You smell.”

  
“You need a shower.” Keith’s voice is muffled by Shiro’s bicep. “You’re covered in cum.”

  
“Your mouth tastes like wet cigarettes.”

  “You came because I kissed you.”

  
Shiro can’t argue with that.

  
Keith’s sitting up, cracking his bones and popping his hips. He throws his sweatshirt back on and slips his legs into his underwear. He starts digging through his pants pockets, pulls out a box of Marlboros and a immediately lights himself a cigarette.

  
Hoisting himself over the driver’s seat, he looks back at Shiro, cigarette between his lips, and says

  
“So, are we taking the scenic route?”

**Author's Note:**

> come at me @doggystylbucket on twit


End file.
